Late afternoon, she asks the silence, “How many nows do we get?”
Infinite, as time slips past the moment always–no one answers.
Must be the caffeine under load, the crash after so many hours awake.
“These particular seconds feel dry, in need of plumping,” she adds,
sucking dew-lipped petals in bloom while sprig leaves turn in shame.
Amid the giants slashed beaming rays the sun dust coats the light
pastels of the sky drooped through the branches spill chestnut
splattering solid pane of an ever adulterated blue, one poison pale.
Arc of the illusion, placid rivulets dribble past plastic encased feet,
“I know I will never pass here again, this earth, this sky, these trees
at this time of day.” And the hiss at the tail of the “yes” lingers a little.
The crackle of vinyl absorbed whistles becalms the watching birds–now.
An empty canvas missing minutes lies blank, only us inside at the edges.
photo credit: http://frothmagazine.com